James was swearing a lot more these days as well. Swearing and smoking – it wasn’t clear at this point if he was growing up or just behaving more and more like a teenager.
‘Lionel isn’t stupid,’ said Rachel. ‘He might not be able to do much planning any more, but he can still recognise a problem when he sees one. He’s got a sixth sense for spotting major fuck-ups. That’s why he’s been able to last so long.’
‘Hold on – are you saying that I’m a fuck-up?
‘I’m saying you’re a potential fuck-up. That’s all. And Lionel knows it.’
James didn’t much like the sound of that. After all, it wasn’t as if he lacked ambition. That was the good thing about hierarchies: there was a clear path, an established step-by-step route between where he was now, and where he wanted to be. He could chart it out on a sheet of paper – a brief description of what he could reasonably expect to be doing at thirty-five, at forty, at fifty, at sixty, along with the associated salary and benefits. But all that depended upon him having a career in the first place – on not fucking up. Or, at least, not unless he had somewhere else he could go.
‘What are these cuts that people have started talking about? I didn’t think they had anything to do with us.’
‘Well, now – there’s my point. If you’d been putting the hours in with us at the pub you’d have heard about them. At the very least, you ought to take me out for our drink.’
‘But I thought we’d gone through all that.’
‘There’s talk of another restructure. Nothing like as big, but it might impact on Environment and Planning. They need to trim the budget by half a million.’
James blew out his cigarette smoke irritably. Down the road, smoking in their own huddle, stood several overweight members of the post room, with their natural allies from the Facilities Team. He looked at them wistfully. Yes, they faced dangers and diseases – bad teeth, proletariat cancers, deep-seated nutritional problems – but they were safe from so many things: from organisational restructures, Strategy Delivery Assessments and from old university friends in high-income tax brackets.
‘This Felix you’ve been hanging out with. I’m not sure he’s good for you.’
‘Felix? You haven’t even met Felix.’
‘I don’t have to. You’ve been going on about him enough. He sounds sinister, the sort of person that would fuck you up for his own amusement.’
‘That’s rubbish. He’s just a friend, that’s all. It’s good to be going out with different people for a change. Doing different things. I can’t spend my whole life in the Red Lion. I don’t want to look like Lionel in twenty years.’
‘You know, you need to give Lionel a bit more credit,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s held down that job for ten years. He’s survived elections; he’s survived restructures. He’s put up with politicians and the most awful pricks. There’s a reason for that. Don’t underestimate him.’
‘I don’t underestimate him. I’d like him to work harder, and be a bit more dynamic and he could support us more and not look so knackered all the time, but I know his strengths better than anyone. I’ve been working for him for years now. He’s a good friend, basically.’
‘And that’s another thing: you shouldn’t trust him too much either. That’s one of your biggest faults. It’s an endearing one, but it’s still a fault. You know what they used to say in the war: never trust a survivor until you know what he did to survive.’
James looked out across the street he knew so well. It was getting warmer – people were going out more, and as a result they were breaking more rules. Cars were driving in cycle lanes and cyclists were jumping traffic lights. Pedestrians were failing to control their dogs. Even Rachel flicked her cigarette butts on to the pavement, for street cleaning was the responsibility of another directorate. It all looked so very different from his masterplan poster.
‘Okay, so you’re saying I should neither underestimate nor trust Lionel.’
‘I’m saying you should respect him, but you shouldn’t think of him as a friend – it’s not helpful. He’s your boss. I’m giving you some very good advice here. God knows why, you don’t really deserve it.’
James was tender-minded, a sentimentalist, sensitive to the realities of suffering, but also to its symbols. This, along with everything else, would need to change. He could see that, and it had nothing to do with Felix – it was what his profession demanded. To try to understand what happened in a single street in a single day would crush the toughest mind, but there was a whole city that needed to be understood, appraised and treated. If he couldn’t be a computer processor, then he could at least be more like Rachel.